


Le Musee de la Petite Reparation

by MurderInTheCathedral



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: AU, F/F, F/M, M/M, Museum AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:35:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26786041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MurderInTheCathedral/pseuds/MurderInTheCathedral
Summary: Long-form museum AU where Quentin is a conservator, Eliot is an art critic, and I wanted an artistic setting in which to make them kiss eventually.
Relationships: Margo Hanson & Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater & Julia Wicker, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter One: Night Owl

Dusty feathers turned brown again.

Achingly and patiently, with a small cotton swab, decades of the dust fell to the floor. 

The room was unbelievably still, most of its usual inhabitants having left for the day. But a little movement still lived. The last bits of sunshine holding on to the windowsills did nothing to warm the temperature controlled room, made even colder by the absence of others body heat. It was an expanse of tall white walls and dark wood floors that seemed to creak all on their own.

The little movement continued in a far corner of the room. He was tucked into the same wall that the door was, so he would see anyone coming in before they saw him. It wasn’t paranoia. Just a general dislike for being startled. And being startled just wouldn’t do when he was working on a delicate project like this.

Slender, light brown fingers ran along the edges of the feathers, making sure no particles remained. For the sake of this project, his project, it wasn’t a helmet. Just feathers. The rest would come later.

He continued to work, only breaking concentration every ten minutes or so. These breaks were used to tuck his hair behind his ear, or scrunch up his sweater sleeves, or straighten his posture. Despite the nervous little movements breaking the calm, it all quickly fell back into its previous position when he resumed focus. 

He heard the lights going off before he saw it, even if he didn’t register the sound in time. The heavy switches had been echoing through the museum for some time, but the security guard flipping them had finally reached the conservation annex.

In this case, while the person coming through the door didn’t see him first, he didn’t see them at all. The lights went off, with only the smallest bits of outside evening light left to see by.

“Hey!”

The noise was almost involuntary, the sudden change in surrounding causing the conservator to break his trance. 

“Sorry, sorry!” An embarrassed voice repeated apologies in the dark, during the audible shuffle to rediscover the switch.

The lights came on. Both sets of eyes blinked as they adjusted to the light again.

“Quentin! You’re here late.” The security guard gave a nervous, dry chuckle. It didn’t look good for a security guard to be caught, well, off guard.

“Yeah...” Quentin trailed off, searching for the guard’s name in his head, then giving up and looking for a name tag instead. The security guard didn’t seem to notice.

“Well, in the future if you could just give us a heads up.” He gave one last pause, like he was waiting for Quentin to say something in explanation, but Quentin just nodded in response. He turned back to his restoration project, the security guard turned on his heel and left.

He tried to get back into his work, but the question of the guard’s name kept buzzing around his concentration like a gnat. It wasn’t until maybe twenty minutes after he’d gone that Quentin’s brain finally supplied the name ‘Josh’. But by that point the days work had caught up to his hands. They to waver just a touch, along with his eyelids, and he knew if he tried to continue, the conservation would suffer for it. 

He worked faster than any of the others, also got there earlier and stayed later, but it was still with a sigh that he put away his tools. As if he was terribly behind and could have done so much with five more minutes.

Quentin walked out of the museum, down the marble stairs, to the subway station, down the metal stairs, and onto a train. All without looking up from his phone. All muscle memory. All like a salmon returning to wherever it spawned. He had been staring at his phone partially to avoid eye contact with people around him, and partially to find a podcast to download before he got underground and lost his signal. The trip from Brakebills Museum and Library on Fifth Ave to his apartment in Brooklyn was about an hour, assuming the trains ran on time, and he didn’t want to spend it with his own thoughts. Brakebills, nearby and often overshadowed by The Met, had mostly the eccentric purchases of a rich family that had since moved on. The collection left Quentin constantly interested and challenged in his conservation, and the curators constantly frustrated in how to weave together coherent exhibits. 

He had decided on a new history podcast but couldn’t get it in time. So, instead he turned the same ‘Myths & Monsters’ podcast he had listened to over and over again. He didn’t feel particularly annoyed about not getting the other one, he had only really tried it because earlier in the day, at their usual Monday lunch, Jules had been nagging him about never trying new things. You’ve gotten the same slightly disheveled haircut from the same barbershop since we were in high school. But he did try new things, or at least he could try new things, if he wanted. He just also appreciated the comfort of hearing about the origins of gnome lore for the twentieth time. 

The podcast played, the train went on, and in an hour made shorter by Quentin’s inattention to his surroundings, he was home in Brooklyn. 

Quentin’s apartment would have been seen as a little shabby anywhere else, but in New York it was a thing of envy. An old 1940’s brick building with little wrought iron flourishes on the outside, and a plaque commemorating it as a historical building. Someone important had died there or fucked there or something. He always forgot because he tried not to think about it too much, not wanting to associate either option with the place he slept every night. Well, almost every night. On the rare occasion that Jules could drag him out to a party for ‘something new’, there were a few of those occasions that left him passed out, face down, ass up, on her sofa. The awkward positioning usually due to her having to arrange him on a soft surface all on her own. For a smaller guy, you manage to pack a lot of weight, Q. I think it’s all those books you carry around in your head. 

For all the books he carried around in his head, he certainly kept more than enough in his apartment to take some of the load off. After the grueling six flights of stairs up to his floor, his tired and slightly shaky hands had managed to turn the lock and get the door open, and he was greeted with the same sight as always. Bookshelves upon bookshelves and some actual furniture interspersed. He cracked a crooked smile for the first time since his lunch with Jules, and walked past into his bedroom, shedding his bag, jacket, and shoes as he went. 

Finally reaching his bed, he gently threw himself upon it, still mostly dressed but far too tired to care. He rummaged and wriggled around a minute to get his phone out of his pocket, get an alarm set, and get it to it’s charging cable. And then he was out.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

“Don’t forget to bring absinthe.”

“Of course. But also why absinthe specifically?”

“I don’t know, I’m just feeling getting fucked up like a Victorian aristocrat. I think it’s the new vest I bought.”

“Yeah, okay.”

With the last word, Margo hung up, and Elliot reverted to lounging on his office couch. His day had been so stagnant, his mind so still and unfortunately sober. His weekend had been full of galleries to review, restaurants to try, and people to fuck. But Mondays were… Mondays. He had to sit in his office and look busy from 10 am until 4:30 pm, despite the fact that he had already written his articles in a mad dash at 2 that morning. They sat in his email, attached to emails with scheduled sends, ready to go off to his editors half an hour before their due date. He was a mess, but a well thought out one.

With little else to do he had gotten coffee, napped on his couch, called Margo to plan for a party, and was back to… nothing. He was thankful (not for the first time although for much more innocent reasons) that the glass windows around his door, offering views into or in from the newsroom, were purely decorative and frosted. To look in, you’d have to press your nose right against the glass. No one could see shit.

He idly remembered a science writer telling him about an experiment where people were left alone with nothing but a button that would shock them horribly. And most people pressed the button, because it was better than being left alone with their thoughts. Elliot tried hard not to understand it.

He leapt up, as if his whole body was an itch. Lounging did him no good, instead he took to pacing and thinking. Margo didn’t have to sit in her office all day for them to pay her. Granted her father was the owner of the Beast, but Elliot felt like he was missing out on the best of the best friend perks. When she did write, all she did was gossip and ‘talk around town’, a not insignificant amount of which she picked up from going to events with Elliot or throwing parties with him. 

Elliot looked out the window, the actual one not just the office peepholes, noticing that the horrid and humid downpour he’d waded through to get to work had passed. Well, there went anything stopping him from trying to sneak out. He threw on his coat and did one last check before leaving. Wallet, phone, hair? Hair was good.

Like some cliche spy thriller, he opened his door a crack and looked both ways before ducking through the busy newsroom. Ducking his head and trying to blend in did little for someone a little over six feet, with some added hair height, but he managed to get to the elevator without anyone calling his name. Relieved, he leaned against the wall ready for a ride of elevator music and nothingness. His luck ended there though, as someone got in with him. 

It was the new investigative reporter, whose name he definitely couldn’t remember despite having been told multiple times, and listening to Margo’s vague disinterested thirst tangents about her. Kathy Olaf Diaz? No, that made no sense. Normally he felt like a pretty gifted liar but he was a little off kilter today and she was an investigative journalist, and he just felt like he ought to be a bit nervous. And, if nothing else, he should be his usual charming self.

“Good morning,” he tested. She was looking at her phone and didn’t look up when she responded.

“We’re actually well into the afternoon.” 

Jesus Christ, how much time had he spent napping?

“Ah yes. I just lost track of time while… writing so much.”

“Okay.”

Elliot wished that the offices weren’t so high and the ride down didn’t take so long, and he was pretty sure she was wishing the same thing. He cleared his throat slightly, considering attempting to start a conversation, but thought better of it. He couldn’t really start up a chummy conversation about journalism. From what he knew, she had gone to some ivy league or other for journalism, while he was a subpar art major who got his position through nepotism by association. 

The elevator music played on. 

They finally reached the lobby, and ‘Not Kathy’ as he was calling her got out of the elevator with the step of someone with somewhere to actually be. Something to actually do. Articles to actually research and write. Elliot meandered out after, the slow gait of someone killing time until the next distraction, even while the slow pace of time was killing them. 

A couple of those slow, long steps from the elevator, a quick but polite nod thank you to the doorman. And then he was out.


	3. Chapter 3

Quentin didn’t know what time exactly he got home or what time he fell asleep, but he was very aware of the time when he woke up. Or rather, when he was woken up. There was a steady beat being kept on his apartment door, not loud enough to bother the neighbors but constant enough to wake him. It was Jules’ knock when she thought it would take a while to wake him up and didn’t want to exert too much energy on being loud for that long. 

He squinted at his phone’s clock. 1:14 am. Fucking ridiculous. 

He briefly contemplated texting her instead of getting up but knew it wouldn’t stop shit and if anything she’d be more insistent once he did give in and get the door. He got up, groaning with annoyance as his body groaned with him. For all the good she’d brought to his life, Julia had also brought a pretty significant sleep deficit. 

He opened the door without greeting, only quiet disappointment, and Jules’ hand froze where it had been knocking as she smiled at him with fake chagrin. He did not immediately step aside and let her in, hoping that maybe she’d come all the way to Brooklyn for something that could be settled by a quick chat before he popped back to bed. 

She had not. 

“Perfect, you’re already dressed,” she said, given a quick once over and wriggling her way into the apartment despite his attempt at being unyielding. He was too tired to be unyielding… but he also suspected that he was far too tired for whatever reason she had woken him up for.

He still hadn’t spoken, though this did not slow her down, and when he huffed a sigh she took it as a question to explain herself. Not far from how he meant it to be honest. 

“I finally got invited to one of those parties the snobs from The Beast are always throwing, and because I am a kind and benevolent goddess of friendship I am bringing you along.” She was messing around in his room, grabbing his phone from the charger, suitable shoes from his closet, and a jacket from where it had been flung across the apartment, before she circled back to the front room. 

“Do I have to?” Quentin’s tone was not the whining question of someone determined to fight for their ability to go back to bed. It was instead the huffy resolve of someone too existentially tired to even fight, simply putting up the last performance piece of resistance so that they could say they tried. Julia didn’t dignify it with a proper response, only handing him his things and linking arms with him as they set off.

While Quentin and Julia were united in their appreciation for the Metro, she had deemed this occasion worth an unconscionably expensive (even at 1 am) Uber ride from Brooklyn to SoHo. The elevator ride up to what Quentin assumed was the penthouse felt longer than the ride getting there. And when the doors opened, he was shown just how correct his assumptions were. 

This wasn’t the usual New York underground artsy party that Jules usually took him to, which always felt like everyone involved was trying too hard to be Andy Warhol. If the other parties were people getting drunk on basic mixed drinks, this one was getting drunk on champagne or absinthe or insanely complicated cocktails. It was still loud, still a bit sweaty, still a proper party. But… classier. 

Quentin had a surge of gratitude for the fact that Jules had picked out his shoes and jacket, and picked well. 

Julia had been pulled into a conversation circle to their left, and had left space for him to join next to her, but he opted out. He chose instead to meander towards the one thing he could hear over the music and the voices, the loud and proud sound of a metal shaking tin as a cocktail was made. 

It led him to a full and proper bar, it didn’t seem like a temporary situation but rather a feature of the apartment and a well utilized one at that. Behind it was a very tall, very pretty man with black curled hair and the most well-fitted vest Quentin had seen in his life. He had conserved a late 18th century corset that had similar color and pattern, and took a moment to admire the stitch work. 

“Staring at strangers isn’t polite, you know.” The voice broke him out of his focus and he looked up at the actual face of the man behind the bar, realizing that it probably seemed like he was just ogling his body. The metal shaking can had stopped shaking some time ago.

“Oh, sorry, I was just um. I was admiring your vest?” 

“Well, I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment. Elliot.” He extended a head nod instead of a handshake and Quentin nodded back for a moment with false confidence before he realized the statement wasn’t rhetorical.

“Quentin… Coldwater. Nice to meet you.”

“Good. Now it’s just staring instead of staring at a stranger.” 

Quentin huffed a laugh at that, and Elliot smiled. He reached for the abandoned shaking can, pouring it out into a dainty cocktail glass. A lemon zest was elegantly plopped into it before being handed over to Quentin.

“Drink this.”

“What is it?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“...okay.”


	4. Chapter 4

When Quentin drinks alone, he wallows. His depression, often kept at bay by keeping busy with work, overtakes him. He goes very low, very quick, and isolates himself even more which makes it even worse. So he only drinks socially. Because he doesn’t socialize a whole hell of a lot, this means he doesn’t drink very much or very often.

And it shows.

Good lord, does it show.

He is one (mystery) drink in, while he’s pretty sure his tall, vested, handsome companion has had infinitely more yet remains infinitely more sober. He only vaguely heard his name over the thrum of the party, and has forgotten some of it due to the alcohol fuzzing and fudging his brain. He thinks it started with an ‘EL’ sound? 

They are pressed beside each other on one of the many sofas in this apartment, and the dark haired drink-mixer smells fantastic, and is looking at Quentin like he’s a puppy he’s considering adopting. 

Quentin wallows when he drinks alone, as we’ve established, but when he drinks around people he is absolutely bouncy. He doesn’t exactly lose the awkwardness, but the shyness certainly goes poof. He has been talking for god knows how long about J.R.R. Tolkien’s contributions to the legitimization of the fantasy genre while almost spilling the last drops of his drink with his wild hand gestures. His companion interrupts him when the lemon zest nearly goes flying across the room.

“Q - may I call you Q?

“Ye-”

“Q, what do you do?”

“... what do you mean?”

“I mean that in the last hour I have been guessing… English professor, fiction writer, artist, male prostitute for a very specific kink, history professor, rare book collector.. and I just can’t get a read on you.”

“After all those interesting guesses I feel like my actual answer will be a bit of a disappointment.”

“Tell me.”

It was the softest demand, and Quentin found himself wanting to oblige.

“I’m an art restorer. I fix things. I’m very good with my hands you see.”

He received a suggestive eyebrow raise at the last part and found himself erupting into giggles, joined by his new friend. 

“C’mon El, I didn’t mean it like that!”

He once again found himself on the other end of a well utilized eyebrow and felt a bit of shyness creep in.

“So quick to use nicknames, Q?”

“You started it…” Quentin murmured back, feeling like a child, but thankfully not like the one he had actually been. 

“What kind of art do you restore with those talented hands?”

“What do you mean?” Quentin wasn’t sure if there was an innuendo he was missing, a joke he was supposed to be making.

“Paintings, sculptures, what kind?”

“All kinds. Everything. Anything. Even things not considered by some people to be art, so many objects are inherently art objects just because someone somewhere thought about making them look interesting or pleasant.” 

He talked with the soft, strong, passionate voice of someone who has thought a lot about the topic they’re speaking about, but has had very little occasion to actually talk about it. Elliot wanted to hear more. Everything. Anything. Even the things not considered by some people to be of any importance. Elliot imagined him waiting for the tea kettle in the morning, waiting for the subway at night, waiting for his laundry at all times in between, and thinking. Running these things over in his head, having the most interesting conversations, all alone. 

But Quentin wasn’t alone, hadn’t come alone at least, and there was a beautiful brunette bounding over looking affectionately at Q. Elliot might’ve felt some disappointment or jealousy, but he figured the three of them could work something out. 

“Don’t you two look cozy.”


End file.
